Pat put tooth past on my store list. The old tube was running low and we like to stay ahead of some things. Deodorant, soap – laundry, dish, hand and bar- and tooth paste are somewhere near the top. I stopped at the dental aisle and found the section that has our regular tooth paste. There are different kinds in the brand. They have extra whitening, one with mouth wash in the mix, cavity fighting and a couple of others but today I noticed a new one. The box had it in capital letters, so I’ll put them here: AGE DEFYING. I have no idea what that means. The box has picture panels that show teeth going from grungy to sparkly white but so do the others . Tooth paste is supposed to be good for you as long as you spit it out at the end. It’s kind of like hygienic wine tasting though I doubt you could ever get people over for a tooth pasting party. And then there would be the problem of what kind of cheese and crackers to serve with it. I’d be a little suspicious of someone who recommended rye crackers and brie with the extra whitening. It doesn’t sound right.
I asked a clerk who happened by the aisle what AGE DEFYING meant. She wasn’t sure and suggested I read the box. I did. It didn’t help much. The best I could understand was that it would firm teeth up and take away wrinkles. It also tastes better than facial creams that say they do the same thing. You wind up spitting both of them out but you could take a little longer with the tooth paste.
I bought a tube just to hedge my bets. The firming quality may help if I ever develop a droopy overbite and this looks to be the best way to delay those telling tooth wrinkles. Now if I could just find the right cheese and cracker combination . . .
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Starting A Movement
I signed up the ‘No Call List’ as soon as it came out and our dinners were no longer interrupted by people trying to sell me aluminum siding for my stucco house or other great offers that were just as useful. Telephone calls still came in, though. Caller ID helped to slow a lot of things down. I don’t pick up the phone for any 800 number or the callers whose identity is Unknown or Unavailable, though there is the inconvenience of getting up and walking to the telephone read the display. I figure that if the call is important they’ll leave a message. They never do.
Chris came up with an idea that seems to work fairly well and I thought I’d pass it along. Maybe we can start a Movement. When an unfamiliar number comes up now I run it through Google to see how many other people have been bothered by the caller. Usually there are quite a few. From there I tuck the number away and use it whenever someone wants a telephone number and I don’t want to give them mine. I use it a lot on the internet when I want more information on a web page and can’t get it without filling in the name, address, phone and email boxes. There are a few of the crank calls that have an address attached to the number and I write that down in the space provided. For email, I use the address of the folks that send me spam. It’s easy, it’s fun and all you need to get started is a pencil and paper, a telephone and an internet connection.
The goal here is to have all of the telemarketers and spammers call and email each other and leave the rest of us alone. Some night I hope to hear the Nightly News have a story that aluminum siding sales came to a standstill when all of the sales people were put on hold and told to wait for an important message. That’s a story I could eat dinner to.
Chris came up with an idea that seems to work fairly well and I thought I’d pass it along. Maybe we can start a Movement. When an unfamiliar number comes up now I run it through Google to see how many other people have been bothered by the caller. Usually there are quite a few. From there I tuck the number away and use it whenever someone wants a telephone number and I don’t want to give them mine. I use it a lot on the internet when I want more information on a web page and can’t get it without filling in the name, address, phone and email boxes. There are a few of the crank calls that have an address attached to the number and I write that down in the space provided. For email, I use the address of the folks that send me spam. It’s easy, it’s fun and all you need to get started is a pencil and paper, a telephone and an internet connection.
The goal here is to have all of the telemarketers and spammers call and email each other and leave the rest of us alone. Some night I hope to hear the Nightly News have a story that aluminum siding sales came to a standstill when all of the sales people were put on hold and told to wait for an important message. That’s a story I could eat dinner to.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Shopping And A Show
Pat called and asked me to pick up a gallon of bleach on my way home. I stopped the local dollar store in a strip mall near my house. There’s a supermarket there but I thought I’d save a little at a the dollar store. After all, bleach is bleach and a one item purchase should be a quick in and out thing and I was in a hurry.
I pulled the bleach bottle off the back wall of the store and went up to the register. Just ahead of me a woman pushed a full shopping cart up to the counter and started unloading. She pulled out pots and pans, cleaning supplies, a broom and dust pan, bed sheet, towels and just kept pulling from the cart. She was chatting with a friend and it turned out she had just moved in to town and was setting up an apartment. It took a while and she finally finished. It took the cashier a little longer to ring up. The total was $127.53. At a dollar store. She probably saved a lot.
The woman dug through her purse, found a check book and wrote a check. The cashier started processing the check then stopped and told the woman, “I can’t accept this. It’s a starter check”
“There’s money in the account,” the woman said. “I just opened it. The bank gave me these checks to use until the regular ones come in.”
“Yeah,” the cashier said, “that’s why they’re called starter checks. We can’t take them. It’s a store policy.”
They had a bit of a staring contest then the woman dug through her purse a little more and said, “Fine. Put it on this.” She handed over a credit card.
“We don’t take credit cards,” the cashier said.
“Everybody takes credit cards,: the woman said.
“We don’t.” They stared at each other a little more.
“What do you take,” the woman asked?
“Checks that aren’t starter checks and cash,” the cashier said.
By now there was a line behind me that ran about halfway through the store. The woman started digging through her purse. It was a large purse, stuffed with enough things to get her through a few days of electrical blackout or being stranded in a desert. There were a couple of water bottles, candy bars, tissue, an assortment of make-up items, a mirror, kids toys, a mirror and those were only the things I could see on top. She dug deeper. Cash and coins were scattered through the purse and she kept a running total as she pulled each out. She lost track a couple of times and had to start over. Her final total was $89.24. A bit short and she started discussing options with her friend. They could either take things off until they came down to cash on hand or go get more cash. They opted for the cash. The woman looked around the store and asked, “Where’s your ATM?”
“We don’t have one,” the cashier said.
“Well, who does?” The woman was getting a little exasperated. Weren’t we all. Most people in the line behind me were making exasperation noises. I’m being kind here.
“The grocery store and the drug store in the strip mall,” I said. “The two gas stations on the corner, the bank up the street.” I decided it was time to be a little active before the bleach bottle in my hand reached its expiration date.
The woman grabbed her purse, shoved the cash and coins back in to it and started out the door with her friend. She half turned and pointed to the counter. “Leave all that where it is. I’ll be right back.” We watched the woman and her friend get in to a car and drive off. The cashier had bagged the items as she checked them. She put everything into a shopping cart and pushed the cart aside and cleared the register. Looking up she said, “Next!” There was almost a cheet in the store.
It only took a few seconds to ring up my bleach. In less than a minute I was in my van heading home. It had taken over twenty minutes to buy a gallon of bleach. I think I saved about a quarter but I got to watch live theater. Shopping and a show.
I pulled the bleach bottle off the back wall of the store and went up to the register. Just ahead of me a woman pushed a full shopping cart up to the counter and started unloading. She pulled out pots and pans, cleaning supplies, a broom and dust pan, bed sheet, towels and just kept pulling from the cart. She was chatting with a friend and it turned out she had just moved in to town and was setting up an apartment. It took a while and she finally finished. It took the cashier a little longer to ring up. The total was $127.53. At a dollar store. She probably saved a lot.
The woman dug through her purse, found a check book and wrote a check. The cashier started processing the check then stopped and told the woman, “I can’t accept this. It’s a starter check”
“There’s money in the account,” the woman said. “I just opened it. The bank gave me these checks to use until the regular ones come in.”
“Yeah,” the cashier said, “that’s why they’re called starter checks. We can’t take them. It’s a store policy.”
They had a bit of a staring contest then the woman dug through her purse a little more and said, “Fine. Put it on this.” She handed over a credit card.
“We don’t take credit cards,” the cashier said.
“Everybody takes credit cards,: the woman said.
“We don’t.” They stared at each other a little more.
“What do you take,” the woman asked?
“Checks that aren’t starter checks and cash,” the cashier said.
By now there was a line behind me that ran about halfway through the store. The woman started digging through her purse. It was a large purse, stuffed with enough things to get her through a few days of electrical blackout or being stranded in a desert. There were a couple of water bottles, candy bars, tissue, an assortment of make-up items, a mirror, kids toys, a mirror and those were only the things I could see on top. She dug deeper. Cash and coins were scattered through the purse and she kept a running total as she pulled each out. She lost track a couple of times and had to start over. Her final total was $89.24. A bit short and she started discussing options with her friend. They could either take things off until they came down to cash on hand or go get more cash. They opted for the cash. The woman looked around the store and asked, “Where’s your ATM?”
“We don’t have one,” the cashier said.
“Well, who does?” The woman was getting a little exasperated. Weren’t we all. Most people in the line behind me were making exasperation noises. I’m being kind here.
“The grocery store and the drug store in the strip mall,” I said. “The two gas stations on the corner, the bank up the street.” I decided it was time to be a little active before the bleach bottle in my hand reached its expiration date.
The woman grabbed her purse, shoved the cash and coins back in to it and started out the door with her friend. She half turned and pointed to the counter. “Leave all that where it is. I’ll be right back.” We watched the woman and her friend get in to a car and drive off. The cashier had bagged the items as she checked them. She put everything into a shopping cart and pushed the cart aside and cleared the register. Looking up she said, “Next!” There was almost a cheet in the store.
It only took a few seconds to ring up my bleach. In less than a minute I was in my van heading home. It had taken over twenty minutes to buy a gallon of bleach. I think I saved about a quarter but I got to watch live theater. Shopping and a show.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Would You Really Rather Have A Buick?
In the summer of 1967 a ten year old Buick, the model with port holes down each of the front fenders, chugged along an old highway in rural Iowa. The highway was essentially a large loop that had been left for the farmers who lived along it when the Highway Department decided to straighten the main highway out. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the loop during the busier parts of the day, mostly farm trucks and tractors hauling a load to the barns or to the fields. At night traffic was more sparse. The Buick wasn’t even supposed to be there but then neither was the driver. My brother, Bob, was behind the wheel. I was the passenger, the one who was supposed to be driving , but there’s a reason why I wasn’t.
We grew up along this old highway, walked along it, and rode our bikes down it. I had my first job working for one of our neighbor farmers when he told me to drive a tractor from a field back to the farmstead. This highway was the first one I drove on. I was 11 years old. Over the next few years I learned to drive the other tractors and the farmer’s jeep and pickups and by the time I got an actual drivers license I already had five years experience behind the wheel.
We moved from the country to a near by city before Bob could get experience and I always felt a bit bad about that so, when I had the chance I let him drive down country roads. We were moving from the city back to the small town and our folks had sent Bob and me to our city house to pick up a load. We packed the back seat of the Buick with pots and pans, Mom’s china and a box of kitchen utensils and headed back to the country. When we got to the turn off for the town I pulled off the highway. A left turn would take us to town and our new home, a right would take us down the old highway past the house where we grew up. It was getting dark and there was no traffic on the road. Bob nodded when I asked him if he wanted to drive and we switched places.
Bob wasn’t a fast driver then and even on the straight stretches of the old highway he’d only do 25 or 30 mph. The road would easily handle 50 and I’d gone down it a lot faster than that. I told him, “You need to go faster. Get this thing up to speed.” The speedometer needle would creep up to 35 and then 40 as I kept at him to go faster.
Bob had had enough of my scolding by the time we got to the end of the highway so instead of pulling over he turned down a gravel road that had a small S-turn before it became a dirt road and went over three roller coaster hills. When he came out of the S-turn he gunned the engine. I looked at the speedometer when we came up to the first hill. 70mph. The first one put my stomach in my throat, the second hill had a steeper drop and on the third one my head bounced up against the car roof. “Is that fast enough for you?” Bob asked. “How’s your head?”
I was a little put out so I told him, “Bet you a quarter you can’t do that again.”
“You’re on,” he said and drove up to a cross road to turn the car around. Seat belts in 1967 were a novelty nuisance in cars. They usually got shoved in to seat cracks to keep them out of the way. I started digging around the crack to find both ends of mine and put it on tight enough to cut off blood flow to internal organs. This was a bet I was not going to lose. Bob got up to 90mph on the return trip and I didn’t leave the seat. “You owe me a quarter,” I told him.
“You know,: he said, “that really wasn’t fair. The hills aren’t as dippy coming back this way.”
“Fine,” I said, “turn it around.” He did and I pulled the seat belt a little tighter.
Headlights at night don’t really give you a good view of scenery along a roadway. At normal speeds you can see the contour of the road and the weeds along to side and glimpses of the ditch. Bob got the Buick up to 105mph and all we really saw was blur. From the first hill to the second my stomach didn’t come out of my throat. At the top of the third hill we left the ground.
It took three bounces (with some good air time in between) for the Buick to stay solidly on the ground. At each bounce the contents of the back seat attacked us from behind. We were pelted and slammed by pots and pans and kitchen utensils and Mom’s china. The china didn’t do so well. After we stopped and took a few breaths our eyes refocused and among the pots and pans and utensils there were shards and pieces of plates and serving platters and other bits of china liberally scattered on the dashboard, seat and floor. I got out of the car and grabbed an empty box from the back seat. Bob did the same on his side.
“Everything that’s whole goes in a box,” I said. “Anything that’s broken goes in the ditch.” We did find enough unbroken china to fill a small box. We shook the shards out of the pots and pans and put everything in the back seat. We had two empty boxes left over so we threw them in to the ditch, too.
I drove back to town well under the speed limit. Bob kept telling me I should go faster.
We didn’t get caught and that amazed us. We expected to be grounded and banned from even sitting in vehicles until old age but it didn’t happen. Life went on pretty much as before. The closest we came to getting found out was a few days later when I was standing with my Dad at the local gas station. He was talking to the owner about something and we watched my older brother drive up the street and stop at a stop sign. He turned and drove past us. Trailing behind the Buick was a gas tank strap. The gas tank,, now being help by just one strap, bobbed and bounced as he went. Dad turned and asked me, “Do you know anything about that?”
“Nope,” I said. “It must have rusted off.”
______________________________________________
One afternoon a while ago the kids were over and we got to talking about things they did when they were younger. Pat and I knew most of it but then she said, “Tell us something you did that we didn’t find out about. We promise not to get mad.” It took a little coaxing but they each had something. Jeff’s was the topper. He had a swim meet one Sunday morning and took Pat’s Neon. He had to be there early and while the sun was up not much else was. He was running late and was speeding and decided what the heck and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. He got the car up to 100mph on the freeway. Pat was shocked he would abuse her car like that. I was shocked that a Neon could do 100. We kept our promise and didn’t get mad but after they left I went out to double check the gas tank straps. Just in case.
We grew up along this old highway, walked along it, and rode our bikes down it. I had my first job working for one of our neighbor farmers when he told me to drive a tractor from a field back to the farmstead. This highway was the first one I drove on. I was 11 years old. Over the next few years I learned to drive the other tractors and the farmer’s jeep and pickups and by the time I got an actual drivers license I already had five years experience behind the wheel.
We moved from the country to a near by city before Bob could get experience and I always felt a bit bad about that so, when I had the chance I let him drive down country roads. We were moving from the city back to the small town and our folks had sent Bob and me to our city house to pick up a load. We packed the back seat of the Buick with pots and pans, Mom’s china and a box of kitchen utensils and headed back to the country. When we got to the turn off for the town I pulled off the highway. A left turn would take us to town and our new home, a right would take us down the old highway past the house where we grew up. It was getting dark and there was no traffic on the road. Bob nodded when I asked him if he wanted to drive and we switched places.
Bob wasn’t a fast driver then and even on the straight stretches of the old highway he’d only do 25 or 30 mph. The road would easily handle 50 and I’d gone down it a lot faster than that. I told him, “You need to go faster. Get this thing up to speed.” The speedometer needle would creep up to 35 and then 40 as I kept at him to go faster.
Bob had had enough of my scolding by the time we got to the end of the highway so instead of pulling over he turned down a gravel road that had a small S-turn before it became a dirt road and went over three roller coaster hills. When he came out of the S-turn he gunned the engine. I looked at the speedometer when we came up to the first hill. 70mph. The first one put my stomach in my throat, the second hill had a steeper drop and on the third one my head bounced up against the car roof. “Is that fast enough for you?” Bob asked. “How’s your head?”
I was a little put out so I told him, “Bet you a quarter you can’t do that again.”
“You’re on,” he said and drove up to a cross road to turn the car around. Seat belts in 1967 were a novelty nuisance in cars. They usually got shoved in to seat cracks to keep them out of the way. I started digging around the crack to find both ends of mine and put it on tight enough to cut off blood flow to internal organs. This was a bet I was not going to lose. Bob got up to 90mph on the return trip and I didn’t leave the seat. “You owe me a quarter,” I told him.
“You know,: he said, “that really wasn’t fair. The hills aren’t as dippy coming back this way.”
“Fine,” I said, “turn it around.” He did and I pulled the seat belt a little tighter.
Headlights at night don’t really give you a good view of scenery along a roadway. At normal speeds you can see the contour of the road and the weeds along to side and glimpses of the ditch. Bob got the Buick up to 105mph and all we really saw was blur. From the first hill to the second my stomach didn’t come out of my throat. At the top of the third hill we left the ground.
It took three bounces (with some good air time in between) for the Buick to stay solidly on the ground. At each bounce the contents of the back seat attacked us from behind. We were pelted and slammed by pots and pans and kitchen utensils and Mom’s china. The china didn’t do so well. After we stopped and took a few breaths our eyes refocused and among the pots and pans and utensils there were shards and pieces of plates and serving platters and other bits of china liberally scattered on the dashboard, seat and floor. I got out of the car and grabbed an empty box from the back seat. Bob did the same on his side.
“Everything that’s whole goes in a box,” I said. “Anything that’s broken goes in the ditch.” We did find enough unbroken china to fill a small box. We shook the shards out of the pots and pans and put everything in the back seat. We had two empty boxes left over so we threw them in to the ditch, too.
I drove back to town well under the speed limit. Bob kept telling me I should go faster.
We didn’t get caught and that amazed us. We expected to be grounded and banned from even sitting in vehicles until old age but it didn’t happen. Life went on pretty much as before. The closest we came to getting found out was a few days later when I was standing with my Dad at the local gas station. He was talking to the owner about something and we watched my older brother drive up the street and stop at a stop sign. He turned and drove past us. Trailing behind the Buick was a gas tank strap. The gas tank,, now being help by just one strap, bobbed and bounced as he went. Dad turned and asked me, “Do you know anything about that?”
“Nope,” I said. “It must have rusted off.”
______________________________________________
One afternoon a while ago the kids were over and we got to talking about things they did when they were younger. Pat and I knew most of it but then she said, “Tell us something you did that we didn’t find out about. We promise not to get mad.” It took a little coaxing but they each had something. Jeff’s was the topper. He had a swim meet one Sunday morning and took Pat’s Neon. He had to be there early and while the sun was up not much else was. He was running late and was speeding and decided what the heck and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. He got the car up to 100mph on the freeway. Pat was shocked he would abuse her car like that. I was shocked that a Neon could do 100. We kept our promise and didn’t get mad but after they left I went out to double check the gas tank straps. Just in case.
Friday, July 11, 2008
A Country Road Taking Me Home
There’s a dairy company here that puts pictures on the sides of their trucks, the big 18-wheelers that deliver to the larger supermarkets. You can see them on the roadways but I found one in a supermarket parking lot. I think they’re trying to put across the idea their milk and dairy products are fresh and closely connected to the land. The pictures are farm scenes.
The one I saw has a farmstead with a white house, red barn, fencing and a country lane that reminded me of a farm near where I grew up. It was enough to make me nostalgic, thinking about my youth and driving along that lane and thinking about what might be around the curve. I used to floor the gas pedal and barrel past the house. At 60 mph the car would skid a bit on the road but stay clear of the ditch. At 70 things got a little dicier and for a moment I could feel the engine rev up and road gravel under my wheels.
I managed to pull myself back to the present and stop the car before I hit the side of the truck. I want to pause here and thank Land of Lakes, Inc. Their marketing program took me back to my youth for a few moments and almost got me to where my ancestors live full time. Thanks again.
The one I saw has a farmstead with a white house, red barn, fencing and a country lane that reminded me of a farm near where I grew up. It was enough to make me nostalgic, thinking about my youth and driving along that lane and thinking about what might be around the curve. I used to floor the gas pedal and barrel past the house. At 60 mph the car would skid a bit on the road but stay clear of the ditch. At 70 things got a little dicier and for a moment I could feel the engine rev up and road gravel under my wheels.
I managed to pull myself back to the present and stop the car before I hit the side of the truck. I want to pause here and thank Land of Lakes, Inc. Their marketing program took me back to my youth for a few moments and almost got me to where my ancestors live full time. Thanks again.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
And They Were Off . .
I don’t spend a lot of time under the couch. As a kid I found out there’s not much to do there and it’s kind of boring. I’ve carried the attitude and experience with me in to adulthood and have found it’s much better to be on top of it. It’s more comfortable and I can bring things to read or watch TV more easily. There’s a loveseat in the living room, too, and the same goes for that.
I’m talking about couches and loveseats because they’re easier for me to move than Pat and one of my jobs has been to pull them out once in a while and clean underneath them. I’m not very good at that job. It’s not hard but I don’t remember to do it very often. The dust ruffle hides a lot and it usually takes a little prodding from Pat for me to get to it. Sometimes she forgets to prod for a while.
This actually started over a fan. We use air conditioning but, unless it’s really hot, we prefer fans for cooling. It was on the warm side last week and since some of our fans died at the end of last summer I went out and bought a new one. The box claimed it was a ‘Tornado Power Turbo Fan.’ I thought that meant they put an extra blade on it or maybe added a few RPMs but when I plugged it in and flipped the switch to high I realized the box was trying to tell me something. The fan blew enough air to give lift to small aircraft.
We don’t have aircraft in the living room but we do have dust ruffles and they started to flutter in the breeze. That’s when the dust bunnies escaped. A few came out from under the couch and loveseat as singles, there were quite a few doubles and threesomes and one grouping that looked like a dance line. They scurried and ran and did a Rumba across the floor. A few tried to take flight but didn’t make it. They finally bunched up in a corner, twirled a bit like a nervous bunch of cows then broke loose helter-skelter across the floor. All I could think to do was to yell, “Stampede!” And that woke up our dogs.
We have two Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers, George and Murray – half brothers from two successive litters. The Wheaten Terrier breed started out as the Irish peasant all-around farm dog with specialties in vermin hunting and herding. We haven’t had any vermin for them to hunt since they got here and their herding skills are less developed but they tried. They chased and snapped and found it’s really hard to kill a dust bunny. They barked a lot but the bunnies didn’t intimidate well, either. Herding was the last option but the bunnies wouldn’t settle down until I turned the fan off and then they wouldn’t move as directed.
George and Murray snapped and barked and pushed at the dust bunnies for a while until they felt their job was done and they trotted off with a smug look. I got a broom and dust pan and started cleaning up the dust bunnies they left in their wake.
Pat came in from her garden as I was finishing and asked what all the commotion was about. I told her I’d just gotten around to cleaning under the couches and the dogs had tried to help. She gave me one of those Uh-huh looks and asked, “How’s the new fan work?”
“Really well,” I told her. “Really, really well.” I thought that was all she probably needed to know.
I’m talking about couches and loveseats because they’re easier for me to move than Pat and one of my jobs has been to pull them out once in a while and clean underneath them. I’m not very good at that job. It’s not hard but I don’t remember to do it very often. The dust ruffle hides a lot and it usually takes a little prodding from Pat for me to get to it. Sometimes she forgets to prod for a while.
This actually started over a fan. We use air conditioning but, unless it’s really hot, we prefer fans for cooling. It was on the warm side last week and since some of our fans died at the end of last summer I went out and bought a new one. The box claimed it was a ‘Tornado Power Turbo Fan.’ I thought that meant they put an extra blade on it or maybe added a few RPMs but when I plugged it in and flipped the switch to high I realized the box was trying to tell me something. The fan blew enough air to give lift to small aircraft.
We don’t have aircraft in the living room but we do have dust ruffles and they started to flutter in the breeze. That’s when the dust bunnies escaped. A few came out from under the couch and loveseat as singles, there were quite a few doubles and threesomes and one grouping that looked like a dance line. They scurried and ran and did a Rumba across the floor. A few tried to take flight but didn’t make it. They finally bunched up in a corner, twirled a bit like a nervous bunch of cows then broke loose helter-skelter across the floor. All I could think to do was to yell, “Stampede!” And that woke up our dogs.
We have two Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers, George and Murray – half brothers from two successive litters. The Wheaten Terrier breed started out as the Irish peasant all-around farm dog with specialties in vermin hunting and herding. We haven’t had any vermin for them to hunt since they got here and their herding skills are less developed but they tried. They chased and snapped and found it’s really hard to kill a dust bunny. They barked a lot but the bunnies didn’t intimidate well, either. Herding was the last option but the bunnies wouldn’t settle down until I turned the fan off and then they wouldn’t move as directed.
George and Murray snapped and barked and pushed at the dust bunnies for a while until they felt their job was done and they trotted off with a smug look. I got a broom and dust pan and started cleaning up the dust bunnies they left in their wake.
Pat came in from her garden as I was finishing and asked what all the commotion was about. I told her I’d just gotten around to cleaning under the couches and the dogs had tried to help. She gave me one of those Uh-huh looks and asked, “How’s the new fan work?”
“Really well,” I told her. “Really, really well.” I thought that was all she probably needed to know.
Friday, June 27, 2008
And The Lucky Number Is . . .
I stopped in at the local gas station/superette the other day and went in to pay for what I’d put in the tank. I’ve been gassing up there for years and know the cashiers. As one of them was ringing up the gas I told her, “The lottery ticket you sold me the other day didn’t work.” She looked up and I continued, “You know if this was Target, I’d be bringing it back.”
I got a “Yeah, right.” and a chuckle as a response.
Back when it first came out, I used to buy a lottery ticket every once in a while. I looked at it as entertainment. From the time I bought the ticket until the published results told me the ticket was a loser I could spend idle moments day dreaming about what I could pay off, where I could live, trips to take, philanthropy to do and about a dozen other things. For a bit, it would take away cares and free up creative juices. When the ticket didn’t win I’d go back to my real life with some things to think about. It was cheap entertainment for a buck.
Pat kept telling me I didn’t win because I had bum numbers. I always took the ‘quick pick’ but I told her if she didn’t like mine, she should come up with her own. She did. It’s a combination of birthdays, an anniversary, and a number from her grandparents arriving in America. Actually, she came up with two sets of numbers – almost identical – and she couldn’t decided which to use so she kept them both. It somehow became my job to make sure we have a ticket. Twice a week I’m at the superette getting a lottery ticket at two bucks a time. So far this year, I’ve won seven dollars.
The lottery isn’t as much fun to play when it becomes an obligation. Creativity is replaced by anxiety when I realize late on a Wednesday evening that I don’t have a ticket and I’ve got twenty minutes to bustle out and buy one. There’s only about a one in four billion chance that one of the two numbers will win but if one of them ever does and I don’t have the ticket . . . I’m toast.
I got a “Yeah, right.” and a chuckle as a response.
Back when it first came out, I used to buy a lottery ticket every once in a while. I looked at it as entertainment. From the time I bought the ticket until the published results told me the ticket was a loser I could spend idle moments day dreaming about what I could pay off, where I could live, trips to take, philanthropy to do and about a dozen other things. For a bit, it would take away cares and free up creative juices. When the ticket didn’t win I’d go back to my real life with some things to think about. It was cheap entertainment for a buck.
Pat kept telling me I didn’t win because I had bum numbers. I always took the ‘quick pick’ but I told her if she didn’t like mine, she should come up with her own. She did. It’s a combination of birthdays, an anniversary, and a number from her grandparents arriving in America. Actually, she came up with two sets of numbers – almost identical – and she couldn’t decided which to use so she kept them both. It somehow became my job to make sure we have a ticket. Twice a week I’m at the superette getting a lottery ticket at two bucks a time. So far this year, I’ve won seven dollars.
The lottery isn’t as much fun to play when it becomes an obligation. Creativity is replaced by anxiety when I realize late on a Wednesday evening that I don’t have a ticket and I’ve got twenty minutes to bustle out and buy one. There’s only about a one in four billion chance that one of the two numbers will win but if one of them ever does and I don’t have the ticket . . . I’m toast.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
A Time To Clean
My minivan is mostly a work vehicle for the property preservation work I do now. It has tools and tarps, bungee cords, a folding ladder, extension cords in various sizes, pieces of wood and plywood, plumbing supplies, an air compressor, locks and a lot of stuff I’ve picked up along the way that I needed for one job or another and has been riding around with me ever since. I do a thorough cleaning about twice a year where I take everything out, reorganize, get rid of things I no longer recognize or have a need for. It takes about a day. The periods between the clean-outs Pat refers to the van as a Black Hole – like the ones in space – anything that goes in there disappears and you don’t see it again until clean-out day.
There’s some truth to what she says. There are times something I need is buried in there, know I have it, remember buying it and I have no idea where it is. That’s when I realize it’s time to clean. I usually get around to it a couple of months later, after more things have joined the pile and I have trouble seeing out the back window. Sometimes, though, there’s an added motivation.
Chris and I were working on a house in a section of St Paul where a lot of immigrants live. I needed a tool and knew I had one in the van. The van was fairly full and I started at the top, pulling, re-piling, pushing things aside. I’d burrowed deep and heard a hiss. A fire extinguisher somewhere in the middle had lost its pin and my last re-shuffle pushed the handle into the ‘Let ‘er rip’ position. I took the blast full in the face. My glasses shielded my eyes but I was blinded from the lenses out
The extinguisher shot out a light colored powder with a greenish tinge and my first thought was, ‘This doesn’t taste very good.’ I can’t even think of what to compare it to except “Yuck.” I backed out of the van, pulled my glasses off`and turned toward the house as a group of Hatians were walking by. They saw me, started screaming and ran down the sidewalk. I found out later they thought I was a Voodoo god. Not one of the nicer ones.
It took a while to brush the powder away, at least enough to go back to work. I was still dusting bits off most the rest of the day. And I scheduled Saturday for a clean-out.
There’s some truth to what she says. There are times something I need is buried in there, know I have it, remember buying it and I have no idea where it is. That’s when I realize it’s time to clean. I usually get around to it a couple of months later, after more things have joined the pile and I have trouble seeing out the back window. Sometimes, though, there’s an added motivation.
Chris and I were working on a house in a section of St Paul where a lot of immigrants live. I needed a tool and knew I had one in the van. The van was fairly full and I started at the top, pulling, re-piling, pushing things aside. I’d burrowed deep and heard a hiss. A fire extinguisher somewhere in the middle had lost its pin and my last re-shuffle pushed the handle into the ‘Let ‘er rip’ position. I took the blast full in the face. My glasses shielded my eyes but I was blinded from the lenses out
The extinguisher shot out a light colored powder with a greenish tinge and my first thought was, ‘This doesn’t taste very good.’ I can’t even think of what to compare it to except “Yuck.” I backed out of the van, pulled my glasses off`and turned toward the house as a group of Hatians were walking by. They saw me, started screaming and ran down the sidewalk. I found out later they thought I was a Voodoo god. Not one of the nicer ones.
It took a while to brush the powder away, at least enough to go back to work. I was still dusting bits off most the rest of the day. And I scheduled Saturday for a clean-out.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
When A Candidate Comes To Town
Chris was late coming to my house today so I called him on his cell phone. He said he was on the freeway but stuck behind John McCain’s campaign bus. I told him I understood. John’s kind of old and he probably drives slow. It turns out he was also weaving a bit. And wearing a hat. And, yeah, the blinker was on.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Last Laugh
Twenty-some years ago a friend brought over a paper bag with sticks poking out of the top. They’re maple trees, he told me. They looked more like something that wanted to be walking sticks when they grew up. There were four of them. One made it. I didn’t think too much about it when I planted it in the side yard but now it dwarfs the house. It’s too big to trim in any meaningful way; too tall to top it off. The most I can do is climb the tree every few years to lob off a branch that wants to tap the side of the house or stroke the shingles.
I’m thinking about the tree now because it’s a maple. Every year it drops seeds that do that helicopter thing as they fall to the ground. A slight gust of wind sends them further into the yard or out toward the street. They’re fun to watch. As a kid I remember using the leafy part of the seed for a whistle. I tried it this year and it still works.
Other than making whistles, Pat and I spent days watching the seeds do their spin as they fell. Thousands of little helicopters spinning toward the ground. We had a bumper crop this year. And now we have to pick them up. They’re not fun to pick up. Some of them are trying to burrow into the ground. Picking them up one by one is tedious and when I use the rake they want to cling to the grass like they were attached with Velcro. It’s a long process.
Our friend, Bob was his name, became ill last year and died. He had a laugh that was both unique and hearty. I heard it this morning when I was trying to pull seeds out of the lawn with a rake and not having a lot of success. Bob liked a good joke. Today, with a rake in my hand and half a bag of maple seeds by my side, it’s on me.
I’m thinking about the tree now because it’s a maple. Every year it drops seeds that do that helicopter thing as they fall to the ground. A slight gust of wind sends them further into the yard or out toward the street. They’re fun to watch. As a kid I remember using the leafy part of the seed for a whistle. I tried it this year and it still works.
Other than making whistles, Pat and I spent days watching the seeds do their spin as they fell. Thousands of little helicopters spinning toward the ground. We had a bumper crop this year. And now we have to pick them up. They’re not fun to pick up. Some of them are trying to burrow into the ground. Picking them up one by one is tedious and when I use the rake they want to cling to the grass like they were attached with Velcro. It’s a long process.
Our friend, Bob was his name, became ill last year and died. He had a laugh that was both unique and hearty. I heard it this morning when I was trying to pull seeds out of the lawn with a rake and not having a lot of success. Bob liked a good joke. Today, with a rake in my hand and half a bag of maple seeds by my side, it’s on me.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
A Question Of Balance
I was going to drive Chris back to the University across town on a really cold winter day. I usually bring coffee along and I heated a cup to near boiling for the drive. We got our things together and went out. I put the cup on the car roof, opened Chris’ door, walked around and opened mine. We got in, buckled up and started off – down the alley, turn, drive a couple of blocks and turn again It was cold enough I wasn’t going to push the vehicle until the engine warmed. I reached down to the cup holder for the coffee. It wasn’t there. I’d left it on the car roof. I hadn’t heard it rumble across the roof (from past experience I know what that sounds like) so I eased up on the gas, pulled to the curb and gently braked.
As I unbuckled and opened the door, Chris had a puzzled look and asked, “What are you doing?”
I stepped out and, yep, the cup was still there. I grabbed it by the handle, slid back to my seat and took a sip. “Ah,” I said, “just right.”
“You didn’t plan that," Chris said. I just gave him The Look as I put the car in gear and started off again.
There’s a time I think every parent experiences. It happens when the kids are young, their problems small and their life is limited to the things we’ve been able to expose them to. It’s a time when a parent can cure ills, kiss away pain and is a constant source of wonder and knowledge. This period doesn’t last very long but for a little while the kid thinks we’re a god. I miss those days. The best I can do now is to try to keep them a little off balance. It re-creates the mood. It helps kids remember that parents are still a little special.
As I unbuckled and opened the door, Chris had a puzzled look and asked, “What are you doing?”
I stepped out and, yep, the cup was still there. I grabbed it by the handle, slid back to my seat and took a sip. “Ah,” I said, “just right.”
“You didn’t plan that," Chris said. I just gave him The Look as I put the car in gear and started off again.
There’s a time I think every parent experiences. It happens when the kids are young, their problems small and their life is limited to the things we’ve been able to expose them to. It’s a time when a parent can cure ills, kiss away pain and is a constant source of wonder and knowledge. This period doesn’t last very long but for a little while the kid thinks we’re a god. I miss those days. The best I can do now is to try to keep them a little off balance. It re-creates the mood. It helps kids remember that parents are still a little special.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
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